


My Other Lense

by MarinaL



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bondage, College, F/M, Love, Original Character(s), POV First Person, Photography, S&M, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 19:24:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5345783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarinaL/pseuds/MarinaL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A younger Mark Jefferson works for the first time as a substitute teacher at a college, finding himself intertwined with a college student who likes to trigger personality traits in him that he didn't really know he possessed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Hiding

Chapter 1

I’m a regular, boring, plain old thing. That’s why I get high. Not often, mind you, but when college gets too unbearable, I need to haze my mind in order to deal with the pressure. I have no friends to confide to and my family believes me to be perfect, and I’d be an idiot to break their illusion. They pay my tuition after all.  
As long as I behave in class, I can do whatever I like in between them. When it comes to not having any friends, it’s not that others haven’t tried, and that I haven’t tried. I just sort of… fall out of touch with them after awhile. All we can talk about is this small little place we like to consider our world—the college itself, and it’s not enough for me. Even so, I never tried to make them talk about anything else, so I guess the blame’s on both parties.  
I even thought I’d get along with dopeheads like myself, but their ideas of deep conversation kills my buzz and also leaves a bitter aftertaste of reality mixed with senseless fiction.  
I like being alone. I always have.  
That’s why I’m so surprised when I see a man entering the dumpsters behind the school parking lot; a place that I’ve come to see as my own personal oasis, and as he sees me sitting leaned against one of the dumpsters, he seems just as shocked to see me there. Especially when we realize that we both know each other.  
“Mr. Jefferson?” I call. His pristine white shirt almost blinds me in the sunlight, but there is no mistaking his short brown hair, perfectly trimmed beard and black rimmed glasses. He might only be a substitute teacher, but he’s quickly grown a reputation at my college, being one of the few people we’ve had that are still famous photographers instead of retired ones. Almost everyone knows what he looks like, even before they’ve met him. All they have to do is use the internet to find his image.  
“Jessica,” he replies, spotting the joint in my hand. I try to hide it, but I know it’s too late. “Funny,” he continues, “I never considered you to be the type that…”  
“Got high?”  
One of my flaws when being on my second joint—I say the first thing that pops into my mind, and it’s often brutal honesty. Even when it’s not in my own favor.  
“Is that what you kids call it these days?” he winks.  
I laugh. “You’re like five years older than me at most. I’m pretty sure we still use the same lingo. Want some?” I reach out my joint, seeing that in my haste to hide it, it’s been unlit.  
“No… I… Like to stay clear headed.”  
“Is that why you’re hiding behind a dumpster?” I snort.  
“In fact…” he muses, “yeah. I like to take a break every now and then. Just like you, though I do it with other means.”  
“So what are you hiding from?” I ask, picking up my lighter and bringing life into the short stump as I light it. Mr. Jefferson watches me intently as I embrace the paper rolled stump between my lips that are still moist from my ironically cherry scented lip balm. I like the scent, and it makes me feel like a starlet from the ‘50s. I wonder if he’d roll his eyes at me if I told him that. I look up and admire his tall stature, his brown hair illuminated by the sunlight, turning it into a tint of red.  
I thought I’d be nervous by this sort of weird intimacy, but I find myself liking the way he watches me from above. It’s almost possessive.  
“How long have you been getting high like this, Jessica?”  
“You didn’t answer my question.”  
“Neither did you.”  
I sigh. “Does it really matter?”  
“I’m just a worried teacher, that’s all,” he smiles.  
“And I’m just a curious student. I bet it must be tough having all the college girls lust after you. Bet you can barely catch a break, and that’s why you need to hide, so you can be yourself for a little while.” I get up form my position, feeling my legs wobble as I do so. I catch the side of the dumpster to regain my posture. He’s either scrutinizing me or pitying me, and I’m the kind of person who wants neither. “Tell me, are the teachers after you, too? Not all women either, I bet. Are you gay, Mr. Jefferson?”  
He takes a step back, laughing, almost nervously. But there is a flame brooding underneath the surface. I can see it in his eyes, and I like it. He wants to be seen as masculine.  
“I can see that I have intruded on your safe place, but I’d suggest you to be wiser next time. You’re lucky it was me. Who knows who else might be able to find you out here. I might not have been teaching here long, but I’ve heard Mr. Longhorn is a real ballbuster when it comes to drug addicts.”  
I scoff, but I can’t get out a word.  
“See you in class,” he says. “If your mind is clear enough to remember the way, that is.”  
I stamp out my joint as soon as he leaves. My buzz is ruined once again. I’ve decided to do whatever it takes to break him down. _Mark Jefferson. Prepare to die._


	2. Being a Pastische

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessica finds her feelings toward Mark Jefferson wavering as she sees a new side to him.

Chapter 2

I like to take pictures of myself. It’s not a vanity thing. Not really. I pose myself in ways so that my face is never seen, or disguise myself into characters that people won’t relate to me. I thought it was because I was too embarrassed to ask someone else to pose for me, but to be honest I don’t think anyone else would want to.  
Photography is the small joy I’ve had since coming to this college. All else is basically math, history, blah, blah, blah. Training to be the best and all that.  
Even so, I know I’m no good at handling cameras, and the fact that Mr. Jefferson remembered my name was a sheer miracle. I barely ever speak up in class. I merely do the assignments, and since they’re not good enough, I know I’ve been hanging on by a thread.  
Therefore, my heart sinks to the pit of my stomach as only hours after our conversation, I enter the classroom and Mr. Jefferson calls out to my entire class that, “The time has come for evaluation.”  
People start to murmur as me and some other latecomers take their seat.  
“That’s right,” he continues, “tomorrow I would like you all to bring me your best work, limited to only one photograph. I want to see your progress.”  
I hear excited voices spreading through my class, intertwined with mutters of the same anxiety I myself am experiencing.  
He sends a bemused smile our way, but he doesn’t look at me. I am only one in the crowd. I wonder if he’s forgotten about our conversation. I’m still pissed about him killing my high, but I’m also embarrassed over him calling me a drug addict. No one has ever said that to me before.  
“Class dismissed.”  
I blink. Where did the time go? At this pace, I am bound to fail. I get up with the rest of my other classmates and exit the classroom.  
I have tried so hard to learn what Mr. Jefferson have wanted to teach me and the rest of my class, but somehow my pictures end up hollow. After all my classes have finished for the day, I line them up in a circle on the floor of my dorm room, one by one, and I sit down in the middle, trying to see which one is the one least awful. But I can’t. All pictures are flailing attempts of trying to copy the people I’ve been taught about in class. I wish I could smoke to clear my head and settle my nerves, but there’s a fire alarm in each room and I’d set it off by a small whiff of smoke. I used to have friends who had tried. The fire brigade came and everything.  
I look down at the pieces of failure around me. I pick one up, holding my lighter underneath it. I burn it halfway through until the flames get too big and I stamp it out, afraid of burning down my entire room. I pick up another. “Piece of shit,” I murmur, taking the lighter and scratching at it, flaking off the image little by little. It feels good. I take another one, ripping it into shreds. And another, and another. When I am surrounded by nothing but trash, I decide that as a final blow, I chuck my hard drive out my window, seeing it splinter into pieces on the side walk. However, there is still a rage within me that is gnawing to get out.  
I get out my camera, thinking of letting it meet the same fate as my hard drive, but instead, I cradle it and sit down into the pile of destroyed rubble of my idiotic dream of having photography as a viable career, and tilt it towards me in bird perspective, holding it up in my arms. I stare up at it defiantly, and as it clicks, the tears start running down my cheeks in heavy streams. Finally. Release.

The day after I look at the image as final proof of what I’ve done. There is nothing I can take with me to show Mr. Jefferson. All students as they enter his classroom walk next to his desk and hands in a square sheet of paper that all holds one piece of photography. As I am about to walk past him, I find myself wavering. Somehow I don’t want to feel his sneering judgment of being the only one that doesn’t give him that piece of paper.  
I rush out of the room and towards a photo copier. I have nothing but that one image from yesterday.  
“Fuck it,” I groan aloud while gritting my teeth, pressing “print”.  
I walk back into the classroom, unable to look at Mr. Jefferson as I hand him my picture. He doesn’t comment on it as I see him take the pile of photographs and neatly stack them at the side of his desk, so I find myself relaxing as he begins his class in a usual manner. However, half-way through, he brings up the photographs.  
“As some of you will experience in the coming years, a photographer will have to defend their work to the most obnoxious spectators. Today, I’d like to give you a taste of that.” He shuffles the photographs in his hand and picks one of them at random. “First out—Kyle.”  
One by one we get picked off, and then suddenly, Mr. Jefferson freezes as he looks at the next photograph in his hand. Then his hand shifts to take another.  
“Frederic,” he calls to one of my classmates as he puts his picture on the whiteboard. “Go on. What made you take a picture of a bird in flight? What does it represent to you?”  
The session goes on, but not all of us are called before the bell rings. This includes me.  
“That’s all we have time for today everyone,” Mr. Jefferson says, and the class is dismissed.  
As I walk past his desk I am almost imagining to be called out, but he doesn’t say a word. I’ve gotten off easy. Almost too easy.

I brush my teeth in the girls’ common bathroom before heading to my room. I’m sleepy and slightly dejected at the events of the day. A part of me wonders if the photograph Mr. Jefferson paused at had indeed been mine, and if that’s the case, why hadn’t he shown it, or at least, give me hell for not bringing a photograph I had made in class? Though to be fair, he never told us we couldn’t bring any picture we’ve taken. Perhaps I could’ve taken a new picture right before printing it, saving me the embarrassment of him seeing the anxiety I harbored. I could’ve taken a picture of a bird right outside my school and spoken just as leisurely as Frederic had.  
I groan, wanting to bang my head against the wall, but instead I stop dead in my tracks.  
My door is slightly ajar. I open it hesitantly to see a man standing there, in the middle of my room, hunched over the mess of photographs I still haven’t been able to get myself to clean up. In one of his hands he holds my broken hard drive, shards and all.  
“Mr. Jefferson,” I gasp and by reflex I close the door behind me, pushing my back against it. It’s as though I am terrified of someone finding him there, but also just as terrified of being too close to him. Is this his revenge for my harsh words earlier today?  
“Is this what you think of your work?” He asks as he arises, reaching out his hands with the hard drive towards me. His voice is cold, almost angry.  
I receive the pieces of plastic and metal, but I can’t bring myself to say anything.  
“You’re lucky I save my students’ photographs on my own hard drive once they send them in.”  
Still shocked by this whole situation, I shake my head, my hands gripping the shards so tightly that they hurt my palm. “It’s not worth doing that with mine.”  
He walks towards me, his eyes almost tender. “What makes you say that?”  
“I’m a pastische,” I murmur. “I only copy the real artists.”  
“That’s most often the best way of finding out who you truly are, Jessica.” It’s the first time he’s ever said my name in a tender voice. Suddenly my brain shifts the idea of Mr. Jefferson being a teacher and being a man. He’s so close to me that I can smell his cologne. It’s strong and musky. It’s perfect. I draw a deep breath and disguise it as a sigh. I look up at him to find him looking back, a small smile drawn on his lips.  
“That picture I saw today was the best one I’ve seen from anyone in this class. Don’t you dare to question your own talent.”  
“I thought you hated me,” I get out, and my cheeks flame up at the words. Without a joint I am too aware of the words I say. Too aware of what consequences they might have.  
“Do you hate me?” He asks.  
“I… I’m not sure.”  
He laughs at that, nodding. He reaches for the doorknob behind me, and our faces are so close together that our lips would touch if I leaned further into him.  
“I should go,” he says. “Before anyone finds out I’ve been here. A teacher in a girl’s dormitory is not something they would take lightly.”  
“I won’t tell,” I say as he walks past me and out the door.  
“Good girl.”


	3. Glass In The Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessica and Jefferson gets acquaintanced on a more personal level.

Chapter 3

The day after, class goes on as normal. We are discussing Andy Warhol, but midway through a sentence, Mr. Jefferson takes off his glasses to clean them, and as he gazes out over the classroom, his eyes stop as they meet mine.

I realize that it’s the first time that I’ve seen him without his glasses, and there is no wall between his eyes and mine. His chocolate brown eyes with his perfectly roman sculpted nose in between them are looking straight at me.  
He doesn’t blink. His gaze is piercing, and at that moment I know that we are both sharing the same moment of excitement. A quiver of longing runs through me.  
Feeling my cheeks burn again, I look away. My pulse rushes into my ears, and I hear him continue but I can’t get myself to listen. Instead my thoughts keep wandering to the thought of Mr. Jefferson looking at me like that for a longer amount of time, and how I want him to. I want him to drink me in.  
”Jessica,” he calls in a stern voice, and I freeze at the sound of my own name. I look back to see him touch a light finger onto the side of his glasses, pushing them back up onto his nose. “Are you paying attention?”  
“Of course,” I hasten to say, but I regret it immediately.  
“And your thoughts…?”  
My eyes examine the table in front of me, my hair falling in front of my face. “I, uh, I agree!” I look up, cheeks burning far hotter than ever before, and my heart breaks as I see the disappointment in his face.  
“Right,” he dejects, and then another girl’s hand shoots into the air, and he nods towards her. It’s one from his regular fan club, and I don’t even care what she says. All I care about is Mr. Jefferson’s smile towards her as she speaks.  
“Very good,” he says as she finishes, pointing an approving finger in her direction. She brightens at his praise, and I find my stomach churning of jealousy and defeat. The class’ bell rings soon after, but I find myself dazed, still stuck in my chair as everyone gets up to leave. Mr. Jefferson who has been sitting in the middle of the room gets up towards his desk, collecting papers as he goes. Perhaps, I think, he’ll look up when I pass him. If he does, I know that I wasn’t imagining the look he gave me before.  
I collect all the courage I can muster and push out my chair and stand up, hoping the noise will catch his attention. It doesn’t. He’s next to his desk, rummaging through the papers, sorting them. Even so, I do not falter. I continue towards him steadily, keeping my eyes on him to make sure I do not miss a small flinch of his muscles; looking for any sign of him wanting to talk to me. As I am right by his desk however, I need to give up.  
I give out a quiet sigh as I turn for the left, and walk towards the exit.  
Suddenly a hand grips my wrist.  
“Don’t ever disappoint me again like that,” he murmurs. “Others might be wooed by someone’s haste to agree with them, but that’s a trick that has never worked on me.”  
I look back, shocked. “I’m sorry Mr. Jefferson,” I whisper, my voice getting caught in my throat.  
“Do you even know what you’re sorry for?” he scoffs, but in such a quiet voice that I can’t tell if he’s trying to reprimand me or if he’s genuinely hurt. My heart pangs in my chest. I don’t know who I am anymore. A few days ago I wanted to hurt him badly, but now I want him to smile. I don’t ever want him to look like that at me ever again. Not with this amount of misery.  
“Everything,” I breathe.  
My response takes him by surprise, and his hard grip releases me at once. “Just… pay attention in class. And don’t lie. You’re better than that.”  
“I promise,” I say, but I can tell that it’s superfluous. He has already turned back to his papers, and it’s my queue to leave.  
I hide behind the dumpsters again, lighting a joint with shaking fingers. I am half-hoping that he’ll see me there

For the next set of lessons that I have with him, he refuses to let me answer a question, no matter how many times I know the answer and reach my hand up in the air. My confusion is leading me towards hate once again, which in a way is comforting. At least I know where I stand with him if I hate him.  
At each end of our lessons together I walk past his desk, but no matter how sluggish I walk, or how hard I look at him as I pass, he refuses to acknowledge my presence.  
Finally, one day, I have had it.  
“Let me answer a question in class,” I say, slamming down my hand onto his desk. I’ve rehearsed the sentence in my head the entire day, but it comes out almost too forcefully. I see a muscle in his jaw tightening, so I know that in his mind he has reacted to my demand, but his answer is merely a set “No.”  
“How can I prove—“ I start, but he cuts me off.  
“Enough.”  
“Right. Wouldn’t want to have a normal conversation with a drug addict, people could get the wrong idea.”  
He looks up at me, his face stern, but I see doubt. I want to pry further into him, but my pride won’t let me in fear of him shutting me down. I always stop when I’m on top.  
I twist my heel and walk out the door.

In my dorm room, I find myself struggling to focus on my other homework. I want him to look at me. See me.  
“See me…” I murmur. And then the thought clicks, and I reach for my camera and aim it towards me. Then I stop. What of me do I want him to see? My body? My anger? My frustration?  
I ponder for a moment. I want him to listen. I point the camera towards my face and focus on my lips, slowly mouthing the words “hear me,” as I snap a picture for each movement.

At class the next day, I shoot an envelope over his desk, stacked with the printed out pictures inside of it. He doesn’t acknowledge it at first, but then his closed hand reaches out towards it, and my heart skips a hurtful beat as I think he is about to shoot it back towards me, but then the fist opens and he takes the bundle and puts it into his bag. After class however he still refuses to look at me as I pass.  
Tomorrow, I think.  
Instead, I find the envelope inside my dorm room as I return from yet another visit of brushing my teeth. I sigh with dejection, and open it up, thinking I’ll find the images, but instead, I find the same amount of cards, but with nothing but words written on them.  
“10 pm tonight. Classroom.”  
I look at the clock. It’s only an hour left until it’s ten. I stumble to my feet, picking up the skirt I wore the day before and the blouse that goes with it. I have no time to waste on clothing, because I can already feel the panic enclosing my chest, and there is only one way I know to make it go away. I almost run to the parking lot, bringing gum and perfume with me, and a blanket to wrap myself into, hoping it will soak in most of the smoke. Just a few puffs and I feel my shoulders slumping down. I only needed half of it to calm down, and I hope it’s enough to make me dare to talk to Mr. Jefferson without stuttering or get flustered, but not enough to make me provoke him like I did last time. Unless he deserves it, that is.

The school entrance is dark and I see no light in the window of Mr. Jefferson’s classroom from the outside. I start wondering if someone has played a prank on me as I put my hand on the entrance’s handle, but as I pull it, surprisingly, it’s unlocked.  
I open the door and enter, letting the darkness engulf me. My heart starts racing at once as I call out a “hello?”, and get no response.  
I get out my phone and let it shine a small ray of light into the abandoned hallways, but it only makes it creepier.  
I tread silently towards Mr. Jefferson’s classroom, my breath turning quicker for each step I take. When I get close to the door I find it open, but I see no one inside.  
“Mr. Jefferson?” I call out as I enter, and then, by the window, I see the moon reflected in his glasses as he moves his gaze towards me. He’s holding a cigarette idly in one of his hands, the smoke whirs around him.  
“I was beginning to think you didn’t get my message,” he says as he puffs out a cloud of nicotine.  
“And I was beginning to think you weren’t going to be here.”  
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”  
I move closer to him now, but I still find myself hesitant to get too close. “I thought you didn’t smoke.”  
“This is a special occasion.” He reaches his cigarette out towards me, but I shake my head as a reply.  
“I like to stay clear headed,” I lie, and my shoulders start tensing again.  
He chuckles. “How the tables turn.” Then he suddenly turns serious, moving closer towards me. I find myself trembling. “You know… You’re not a drug addict.”  
“Aren’t I?” my gut hurts as I see him smile at me, but as he blows out more smoke around us, I wonder if the cigarette in his hand is his way of apologizing.  
“And… For the record,” he says, his face close to mine, “I’m not gay.”  
I let out a loud snort, then cover half my face with my hand to stop me from laughing longer, since it might blow my cover. “I know that you’re not.”  
“How can you tell?”  
I push against him, feeling the outline of something hard underneath his trousers. He lets out a short, quiet gasp.  
“Because of that,” I breathe.  
I look into his eyes, which are hidden behind the glasses he likes to wear so frequently, the moon reflected in their shiny surface.  
All I can see from the moonlight is half of the outline of his perfect sculpted brow and chin. He inhales from the cigarette, and I imagine he is eyeing me, but his eyes are hidden from my view.  
“I can’t see you properly,” I murmur.  
“Do you want to?” He asks, exhaling the cigarette smoke so close to me that I get caught in inhaling it. It sends a whiff of his cologne mixed with the smoke into my lungs, and a rush trickles through me. I feel light-headed.  
“Can you see without your glasses?”  
“Yes. If I’m up close.”  
“You are now.”  
His face is so close to mine now I can smell the nicotine from his breath. I reach up towards his face, slowly moving towards his glasses, and he lets me. I put them down on his teacher’s table, and when I move back towards the window I see him holding his steady gaze at me as I look into his dark brown eyes.  
“Has anyone ever looked at you like I have, Jessica?”  
“No.”  
“Do you like it?”  
“Yes.”  
His breath is as ragged as mine as he takes one step forward, his body pushing me against the window.  
My legs part and enclose around his. My body moves on its own, pushing him towards me with my feet. I gasp as he pushes his hard-on against my crotch.  
“Mr. Jefferson,” I breathe as I find myself rubbing against him, a pounding sensation of a tickle grasping my body and a wetness spreading, my legs pushing him even closer.  
His face pushes close to mine, his mouth open in a gasp.  
“Are you sure about this?” he murmurs, and I reach up to kiss him, my lips hungrily reaching for his. His mouth responds in finesse, catching my lips and parting them with his tongue. I’ve kissed men before, but no one this experienced. His beard tickles my chin.  
He holds my head in between his large hands, and slowly one of them reaches down behind my back to push me towards his chest. The only thing that separates us now is fabric, and I don’t want it to. As his tongue collides with mine I pull down my stockings and underwear, praising myself for wearing a skirt, and then I reach for his belt.  
“Jessica,” he murmurs, “this is not…”  
“What?”  
“I don’t usually… do this… with students…”  
I unzip him, taking him into my warm hands. He moans with pleasure, biting his lip as I pull his foreskin back. He trembles in my grasp. Somehow, I hold all of the power, and the man that used to be my teacher actually lets me. His eyes tell me that he surrenders to my wishes, and my wishes are all about being fucked. Right now. Right here.  
As I lead his tip inside of me, a quiver runs through me, and he cocks his hips forward to push further in. A moan escapes my throat, and he catches it with his mouth on top of mine. His kisses are even more fervently as he starts rocking his hips back and forth, his cock deep inside of me. I have to hold on to the window sill to keep myself steady, and with one of his hands grasped tightly around my waist it’s almost as if we’re tightly knit together.  
One of his hands suddenly slams onto the window so forcefully I think it might shatter. “You feel so good,” he murmurs, his eyes closed into a squint, his entire self so engrossed in the pleasure we’re experiencing together, but I can’t look away. I want to remember everything from the sweat glistening on his forehead to the way his belt down at his feet jingle as he pushes into me. But I want more. I encircle my fingers around his shirt, opening its buttons.  
“What are you doing?” he breathes, but he is too lost in ecstasy to truly mind as his white shirt opens and my mouth reach out towards his perfectly muscled chest.  
“I want to see you. I want to feel you,” I murmur as my tongue licks the outline of collarbone.  
“Mmh…” he lets out in between thrusts, the hand behind my waist suddenly stroking its way to my front. “I want to feel you too.” His fingers slide between the buttons of my blouse, flicking them open with a steady hand, and it soon finds its way onto one of my breasts. He’s warm, caressing it fondly.  
“I want to see you, too…” he murmurs, and suddenly his hand moves behind my back again and onto my left thigh, and the other hand from the window reaches underneath my right one. Suddenly I am lifted up, my thighs grasping his waist and my arms around his neck, his cock still steadily inside me. My chest is pushed against his, and I can feel my hard nipples rubbing against his chest, the movement sending another shiver echoing through my body. For once I am taller than him, and I look down, seeing him bite his lip.  
“The way your muscles in your pelvis are tightening right now…” he murmurs. “Ohh…”  
I feel his dick throbbing inside of my inner walls as he sees me smile down at him. I squeeze tighter.  
“Mr. Jefferson…?” I say. “I have a question to ask you.”  
“God I love the way you say my name,” he moans, kissing the parts of my body his face can reach. He likes sounding as though he has authority over me.  
“What if I were to jump down right now?” I whisper into his ear.  
“Don’t,” he beckons, and I feel his pelvis send a tickle through me as he moves himself slowly back and forth inside of me, a tight grip around me keeping me in my place. I move one of my hands down in between us, touching myself as I rub against him. My sensation is doubled, the tickle turning into small shivers of pleasure. I let out a heavy breath. “Do you feel good, Mr. Jefferson?”  
“Unh… Yes…” he moans, his voice so hoarse it’s barely a whisper.  
I nibble at his earlobe, letting the slightest of pleasure escape my lips, which is enough to send him spiraling into a delicious primal instinct.  
“I want to fuck you,” he moans.  
“Then fuck me.”  
He pushes me onto his teacher’s desk, and with a final kiss I lay down, spreading my blouse away from my chest and sprawling out my hands above me as I look down at him, standing in front of the desk, staring at me.  
His breath is ragged as he takes his glasses from the desk and puts them on, and his eyes widen. My chest rises and falls in heavy breaths as I see him take me in, the cold air encircling my body to make my nipples tense and leave goose bumps on my skin.  
“Oh, Jessica… You’re really something special…” he murmurs, not even realizing that he’s the one that’s special, as he stands there in the moonlight with his open shirt and beautifully chiseled V-line leading down to his glorious, pulsating member.  
“I want you,” I beckon.  
“I want you too,” he says, his hands stroking my inner thigh and up towards my stomach, then my breasts, then my neck, and finally, my wrists. “All of you.”  
“Then take me,” I say, encircling my legs around him. His hands tighten around my wrists. I lead him in with my legs, and his open shirt tickles against my bare chest as he enters. I want him closer. I want him to push all of his weight onto me. I want to feel where he is. “Do you feel me?” I ask.  
“I feel you.”  
“Harder.”  
“Unh.”  
“Grab me harder.”  
He looks up at me, his hands gripping my wrists tighter, his pelvis rocking onto mine.  
“Deeper,” I moan. “Oh, right there. Yes.”  
He pushes against my inner walls with such precision, pushing one button after another that sends small sparks all inside of my body. “You’re so good,” I moan.  
His grasp around me tighten as he bends down again to kiss me, this time so breathlessly I can feel the effort of each move he makes. Each push against me sends a ripple through my body, and each push makes him shake of pleasure.  
Sweat has broken out in between us, and the smell is intoxicating.  
“Unh, Mr. Jefferson,” I moan, “I’m about to—“  
His grip is so tight around my wrists it feels as though my bones will shatter.  
“I’m almost there too,” he moans, his cock harder than ever, his movements quicker and quicker. “Oh, Jessica…”  
“Mmh,” I let out, “Oh God!” I feel the fireworks inside of me burst into explosions, and Mr. Jefferson soon joins me with calling out my name, his fingers digging deep into my wrists.  
“Unh,” he groans, a deep and husky voice, “Oh, YES. YES.”  
He freezes, deep inside of me, and I latch on to him, enjoying the sight of his body quiver as he releases.  
Suddenly his hands fall down towards the table, and rest at the side of my hips. I kiss him.  
“Not so bad for a drug addict, huh?”  
"Don't call yourself that," he murmurs, hugging me tightly, almost defensively.  
"Sorry."


	4. The Pain and The Extacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessica is left alone and she decides to self-medicate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so much fun to write! I tried to make both of the characters have their fun with each other, enjoying themselves together. Hope that comes across! Let me know if you like what you read or if you have any comments on how I might improve!

As the moon started to be replaced with sunlight, I find myself staring at my half naked teacher as he zip up his black trousers and cover up his beautiful body with his white shirt. I find myself unable to look away, enjoying each moment of his ripped abdomen and gorgeous chest before he hides it completely from my view.

I don't want to cover up, though. I want to stay in this moment forever. He ends up being the one that makes me, giving me a peck on my left breast, before he starts to button me up.

“This has been… a real treat,” he says. Then he walks towards the door, swinging it open while looking back to make sure that I follow. As I move past him, I stop and look up at him. He smiles and lean over towards my ear, whispering, “I haven’t cum that hard in years.”

I don’t want to go, but I know I must. I kiss his cheek. “Me neither,” I reply and he chuckles.

We meet in class just a few hours later, both of us refreshed by showers and at least in my case a few tidbits of sleep. I kept dreaming of his body against mine, and I ended up masturbating more than once.

Mr. Jefferson has a large mug of coffee sitting on his desk from which he swallows in large gulps as the class progresses. He refills twice. There are bags forming underneath his eyes, and I can see that he has had to cover up his neck with a tie around his otherwise usually casual shirt in order to hide the bites I gave him just hours prior.

The day after I have to start hiding my own marks, too. My wrists have started to form small bruises here and there, but I find myself touching them as soon as I think I see him glancing my way in class. The pain is a tickle of a reminder of what we shared together, though Mr. Jefferson seems eager to forget it. After being ignored for five classes in a row, I decide it's time to call it quits. After each class I have stayed behind walking slowly behind his desk, but each time he has ignored me.

I haven't smoked for an entire week, but dealing with the fact that Mr. Jefferson and me has been nothing but a one night stand for him, I feel my body tense up and my heart ache in a way I've never experienced before. I walk towards the dumpsters, my hand already clenching my lighter, flicking it on and off, and two fingers grasping a joint hidden in my pocket. Just holding it makes my stomach twist. I sit down and lean against one of the dumpsters, pushing the lit joint to my lips. I inhale the smoke deeply. Nothing. I inhale again. Nothing. I screech in frustration, inhaling puff after puff, wishing the next one is the one that sends me through a haze, but far too quickly the joint is gone and I have to light another. It's not until I'm halfway through my fourth one that I feel a calming buzz enter my brain and vibrate into the rest of my limbs. The feeling of relief is so grand that a tear falls down my cheek. And then another. I do not try to ponder why the tears trickle down my face, instead I let them fall continuing to inhale my joint, but in slower and more drawn out breaths than before. "There is nothing but my tears and this dumpster," I think to myself. "There's no me, and no Mr. Jefferson."

Suddenly I hear a quick snap, and my eyebrows frown, trying to remember where I've heard it before. Then I hear another, and the memory falls into place. It'a the sound of a camera's shutter closing as it takes a picture. I look toward the noise, seeing a man with a pristine white shirt looking into the camera's viewport, suddenly freezing his movements as he sees that his subject has spotted him. He looks up at me from behind the camera, and embarrassment and rage gushes through me. My brain and body somehow forgets my high as I arise and run towards him, pummeling him to the ground and snatching the camera out of his grip.

"You son of a bitch!" I screech as I pull away from him, his camera still in my hand.

"Jessica," he calls, his palms outstretched towards the camera. I back away from him, opening the camera'a preview menu to see the photos located on its memory card. I flip through the images and see my own shocked face as it stares towards the lense, then I flip backwards to see my own face as it's dazed into nothingness, tears falling down my cheeks. Flipping further back I see a picture that is zoomed up to one of the school's windows, my face lazily staring out of it. I look deep in thought in the picture, and sad.

"When was this?" I gasp.

"I... I can explain he says, having arisen now and walking towards me.

"Are you stalking me?!"

"No, I... not at first..." He's right next to me now, his hands encircling my shoulders. "Jessica, listen, I--"

"No!" I push against him, and he stumbles backwards, falling again, but this time he takes me down with him. I hasten to sit up, my legs straddling his legs to keep him from arising and walking away.

I pull the memory card out of the camera and hold it up towards him.

"You have thirty seconds to explain what you're playing at until I go to the principal with these images. God knows how many more you've taken, and of what girls."

It's only when I say it aloud that I realize that it's a possibility. I might only be one of many that he's had his fun with, and after he had me, I am nothing but another girl he's fucked.

"No, Jessica-" he starts, but I cut him off.

"Better yet, hold out your hand," I say.

"What? Why?"

"Are you in a position to ask questions?"

Reluctantly he abides, pulling up his white shirt that is filled with grass stains and dirt. I wonder if he will have to buy a new shirt or if he has many just like it at home. It wouldn't surprise me if he did.

I put the memory card into my bag and pull up my lighter from it. I then toss the bag away from us.

"You will get to talk for as long as you let this burn your wrist. If you pull away, I walk."

He doesn't nod, but I know he understands. I pull up his shirt, folding it gently. I can see the sweat collect on his upper lip as he awaits the burns. I can also see the rage within his eyes as the lighter is flicked on, but the bulge that is forming underneath me inside of his pants tells me something different.

"Are you enjoying this?" He says through gritted teeth. "Are you enjoying my... unh... my suffering?"

I kiss him lightly on his glistening forehead, licking the salty taste of it his swear away from my lips. "Oh yes."

"I want to rip off your clothing right here and fuck you senseless," he groans.

"You can't."

His other hand slides it's way up my exposed thigh and underneath my skirt. It sends a shiver up my spine and my nipples harden, but I can't let him win this easy. He will leave me again unless I make him remember me. Unless I make my mark.

"Am I the only one?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe you."

I pull the lighter closer to his wrist, and his other hand grips my thigh violently, pushing his fingers in to keep himself from pushing away his other wrist. His hips jerk upwards, thrusting against me.

"Jessica, please...!"

"Tell me why. Why are you ignoring me, but take pictures of me when I'm not looking?"

"Oh God this is torture..." he murmurs, his pride refusing to let me win. "We... we can't be this close to campus... someone might see... ahh fuck...!"

The mixture of anger, pain and lust makes me start rubbing my clit against his hardening outline, my own excitement getting the best of me.

"Tell me why."

"Mmh..." he moans, his hand above the flames clenching into a fist. "Please, Jessica..."

"Tell me why!" I roar, and his eyes widen in alarm and sudden rage. He grabs me by the waist with both of his hands and slams me onto the ground, my hand losing the grip of the lighter. I see it disappear in the grass underneath us, and I laugh as I look up to see him pushing his body in between my legs.

"Keep your fucking voice down," he hisses, "and don't you ever try to tell me what to do, ever again.

My chest rises in heavy breaths, adrenaline coursing through my system. He will remember me. He will.

"Is that all you've got?" I challenge, and he lets out a gurgle of a roar, grabbing my wrists and pushing them far above my head, his face mere inches away from mine, his eyes wide and forceful. He slides one of his hands underneath my skirt, his palm pushing against my crotch. I swear he can feel the blood pumping through my body, because he grins, using two of his fingers to rub against my labia. I bite my lip, trying to hide my pleasure. His face is still level with mine, his breath hitting me in heavy huffs. I try to kiss him but he jerks back, sniggering.

"Ask for it," he says. His hand continues by moving up over my stomach and inside of my nylons and panties. Slowly and delicately he enters me with one finger, his thumb pressing against my clit.

"Oh God," I moan. I want to please him as much as he pleases me, but with my hands restrained with an iron grip, all I can do is be painfully aware of his hard cock between my legs getting larger and larger as he continues to jerk his fingers against and inside my cunt, knowing there is nothing I can do to make him feel the same gut-wrenching sensation as I am. My legs suddenly clench, and his fingers start going faster, and faster.

"Unh," I moan, electric sparks bursting inside of me. "Mr. Jefferson, I--" I gasp, "I'm about to--" and then comes the rush, like a waterfall gushing throughout my entire body.

"Unnnh, yes!" I screech, and I look up at him, wanting him so badly it hurts.

"Ask for it," he says again. He's taken back control, and I cave almost willingly.

"Fuck me again," I plead. He doesn't even take the time to savour the moment of victory. He pulls both of his hands back from me, jerking his belt away from his trousers and pulling down his zipper. The "ritch!"-sound it makes as it is pulled down makes me quiver, anticipating what is yet to come. He pushes into me with ease.

"Oh God," he gasp, barely containing his pleasure as he pounces against my inner walls. I can already feel another orgasm coming, and I unable to stop myself from the ecstacy of being completely filled up with Jefferson.

"Oh God, I've missed this..." he moans, his eyes squinting shut as he focuses on the pleasure. "Ohh fuck...!"

His hands are grasping the grass on either side of me, and in my daze of fireworks prickling my skin I see the red spot on his wrist from where I burnt him. I want him to remember me. I dig my nails into the spot and he roars at me with eyes opening wide, my next orgasm hitting its peak.

"FFFUCK," he exclaims, but he keeps pushing in and out of me, faster and faster.

"Harder," I gasp, "Fuck me harder!"

He suddenly stops in a quick beat and rips my hand away from his wrist, taking my other hand along with it. He pins it once again above my head, this time with such force I do not dare to move. One of his hands rest against my throat, pinching it slightly. The movement was so fast it felt like being thrashed downwards a roller coaster, a shriek of joy escaping me and butterflies still present in my stomach as he stares down at me.

"Now fucking stay there," he says through gritted teeth, his cock so hard and my inner walls pulsating so strongly against him that as he starts to move, I think that I might cum again. I move against his grip around my wrists, feeling the grip turning tighter and tighter with each of his thrusts. His hand on my throat move down to my left breast, embracing it hungrily. He stares down at me, his lips slightly touching mine, but he doesn't kiss me. I look up into his fiery eyes, seeing them dilate, and suddenly, he shudders. His hand grips tightly around my breast and the other around my wrists, and I gasp loudly from the pain which is intermingled with ecstacy.

He clamps his lips over mine, kissing me hungrily as he shudders again, and I intertwine my legs over his waist, pushing him into me deeper, and deeper, a shiver of a small but exquisitely painful orgasm ripples through me.

"Mmh..!" He groans as he finally releases my lips and cums.

"Fffuck!" He gasps. "Ohhh fuck...!"

He takes a few heavy breaths as he looks down at me, releasing his grip around my body.

He smiles. Then he pulls out.


	5. Bruised Heart

He pulls away from me almost at once, a confused expression present on his face. He rubs his hands against it as he looks around. It's almost night time.

"Do you think anyone saw us?"

"Do you care?" I croak, my throat suddenly soar and my voice raspy. He looks back at me, his confused look turning into one of despair as he slips a finger over my neck.

"I can see my own finger marks on you," he murmurs. "Does it hurt?" Then he swallows hard, and all blood drains from his face. "This was a mistake."

I sit up as he draws away from me to pick up his camera. I can do nothing but feel a pang of pain inside of my chest. He might remember me now, but it will only be because of guilt. I crawl up and reach for my bag. "Here," I say as I take out the memory card. I take his hand and place it in it, holding him as long as I can before he draws his hand away from mine.

"Jessica..." he murmurs. He's about to walk away, and I can't let him. I walk forward, forcing him to meet my gaze.

"It's fine. I... I don't care anymore. Just please don't call this a mistake."

He grips the small piece of plastic and metal, hurt welling up inside of me as I see the way he looks at me. It's a look of remorse and pity.

"You can't be this nice to me anymore," he says. "This is over."

"Why?" my voice comes out in a desperate squeak.

"Don't you get it? I can't be near you." His eyebrows turns into a panicked expression. He's about to cry. "You're destroying everything I am. Or at least, what I thought I was..."

"What are you talking about?"

He turns away from me, shaking his head. "No matter where I go, there you are. And the longer I stay away from you, the more you hurt, and the more I am drawn in. I can't stop myself... Each time my eyes are drawn to you, I need to capture that moment. I can't stop myself. Jessica, I'm a monster. I love the image of you hurting."

"How... long have you... felt like this?" I stutter, my faltering voice pulling him towards me, his hands encompassing my face. He looks down at me with such passion that I realize that his words are true. He truly does love looking at me when I'm hurt.

"It happened when you handed in your photograph. Your other pictures have hinted at your greatness, but that one... I was awestruck. I was going for a walk outside the campus to clear my head and I saw you brushing your teeth from outside the bathroom window... I had to talk to you. Right then and there. I was like a moth drawn to a flame. I couldn't stop myself. Then I entered your room and saw the turmoil that rained within you... and... I... loved it."

"Mr. Jefferson..."

"Please... Just once... Call me Mark."

"Mark." The name comes out with a sting, and he feels it.

"You hate me."

"I... love you." The words comes as a surprise to the both of us.

His hands fall to his side. "You can't know what love is." 

I don't have a reply, as he's right. How does anyone truly know what love is? Why did I even say it? He turns to leave, and I falter.

"Mark..."

"No... It's Mr. Jefferson now."

This time I do not even get a kiss goodbye. I guess we're completely over.

 

As the buzz of marijuana leaves my system, I find myself unable to sleep, confusion taking its place. I brush the bruises on my neck, feeling a small tickle of hurt as my fingertips push down on them. I place my hands over my throat, closing my eyes as I squeeze. I try imagining Mr. Jefferson is above me, pinning me to the bed, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. As I release my grip, my lungs inhale a raspy breath, and it feels as though life is rushing through my system for the first time since this morning. It feels good.

I had been completely unaware of Mark Jefferson's obsession with my pictures, as well as his yearning to take pictures of me while I wasn't looking. When I found out, I felt... anger, but I am left with wondering if the anger was because I thought he hadn't liked me, or if it was because of him taking pictures in the first place. Even if I had only taken a glimpse of them, they had been beautiful. He captures his subjects with such ease and finesse that I cannot help but find myself a bit... Proud. But there's still the nagging feeling of him having done this before to other girls, and I don't want to be merely another one. As the night continues, the thought keeps nagging at me. Am I truly the only one?

He might consider us to be over, but at least, he should answer me that. He _needs_ to answer me just that one question.

I shoot up from my bed, rummaging through a lot of brochures from my school, which I soon discard in frustration. Neither his address or phone number is in there, but I realize there's a phone book at a café downtown next to a payphone. As I run out the door, I thank this small college town for still being so lo-fi that it keeps track of all of its inhabitants.

It's raining outside and I don't have an umbrella.

_Fuck it._

The café is not far away, but even so I'm soaked to the bones and freezing as I arrive.

"You look like a drowned cat!" the old café owner chuckles as he sees me, and I only nod and smile politely when he asks me for a cup of coffee. As he prepares it, I walk towards the payphone, rummaging through the book, getting ready to pick up a few quarters when I realize that the book is three years old, and Jefferson only moved here a few months ago...

I hunch over the cafe's counter and sip the coffee. It's too watery. I sigh.

"Study troubles?" the café owner asks.

"Something like that."

"I see you students all the time... You're so worried about your future, but let me tell ya... It'll work out. It always does, one way or the other."

"Thanks."

I hear the cafés door open, the owner calling out, "can't sleep either, huh?"

"No," I hear a familiar face call out, and I turn to see him stand there, wet and almost as miserable as I myself feel like.

"Mr. Jefferson..."

"Ah, Jessica..." he says, his voice faltering, "You're out late. Care to join an old teacher for coffee?" He sides a glance towards the owner, who picks up another cup and fills it, pushing it towards Jefferson. He's so smooth, as if nothing has happened inbetween us. As if we're merely two people coincidentally meeting to grab a cup of coffee. He's a master of disguises.

"Pick any table you'd like, as you can see we have a lot of them," the owner murmurs. There's barely any people inside of the place. Most students must be either partying or studying.

I pick up my cup and follow Mr. Jefferson to a corner of the café, long away from earshot of the owner, though to be quite frank the man seems too occupied with a television showing a baseball game that it wouldn't even have mattered if we had sat by the counter.

"I thought we were over," I say.

He sips his coffee, ignoring my statement.

"How many?" I ask.

"What?"

"How many have you taken pictures of before me."

"Jessica, I'm a photographer..."

"Yes, but the way you've taken pictures of me... The way you've stalked me. How many?"

He shakes his head. "I wasn't lying when I said you were the first... But I hope you're the last."

"Hope?"

"Perhaps that's the wrong word... Look, it's good that you're here... I've... thought about our conversation. I think I might hand in a resignation so that you won't have to see me anymore."

"What? Why? There's only two months left."

"I know, but... I wouldn't want to fuck up your finals for you... I feel... responsible. I shouldn't have..."

"Fucked me?"

He swallows his coffee wrong and starts coughing. "Please, Jessica... We're in a public place."

"If you're resigning, then who cares?"

He sighs, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "You're so obstinate. It's a feature I don't like in a lot of people, but... It suits you."

"Mr. Jefferson... Mark..." I grab his hand as he wipes the napkin on the table to soak up the spilled coffee. "I think I might like to be hurt."

"You don't mean that." His eyes are cold. Shut off.

"When you're with me I feel alive. The things you do to me wakes me up. Without it, I'm in a daze."

He stands up. He leaves.

I run out after him in the rain. I grab his arm. If I don't, he's gone forever. He pulls my arm away, grabbing me by the wrists.

"Is this what you want?" he says through gritted teeth, squeezing my wrists as tightly as he possibly can. "Is this enough pain for you? It will only get worse if we continue with whatever we're doing."

"I want whatever you want... Just tell me what it is."

"I can't."

He drops my wrists. "This is too fucked up."


	6. Another View: Mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story takes a twist as we get to see it from Mark Jefferson's eyes, trying to deal with not seeing Jessica ever again.

It's late. Far too late to still be at the school, grading assignments for students whose grades I already know but I can't muster enough energy to write it down. My mind hasn't been able to focus for hours, and I sigh of exhasperation. The longer I stare at the printed out pictures in front of me, the angrier I get.

All but one student has given in the last assignment before the finals.

"Jessica..."  I murmur.

I want to go to her dorm room again, but this time, I wouldn't be gentle. I'd grab her shoulders and shake some sense into her. I'd push her against a wall and make her see the truth. Her education depends on these last assignments, and she can't continue to play these games with me. I'm not a man to be toying with. I hold the cards and she is nothing but a student.

_I want to kiss her._

I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. It can't continue like this. Our involvement hurts her grades, and it hurts my concentration. I came to this college for inspiration-- to find myself as a photographer again. I even rented a small studio which I occasionally go to, but I can't get myself to bring people there. I don't want anyone else there.

_Except her._

"Fuck..." I groan, pushing myself and the chair I'm sitting on away from my desk, and away from the photographs on top of it. I can't bear to look at them any longer. I stare up at the empty classroom, and my eyes trickle towards the spot where she always sits. Even when I don't look at her I can feel her penetrating eyes on me. It used to be a comfort. Her anger and desperation made me feel alive, and in control. When I think of her now, staring at me from that desk, all I see is the last time we spoke outside of the café-- the the way her pleading eyes turned into those in pain as soon as I pulled her arms apart from each other and squeezed her frail wrists until she shivered. I remember feeling her pulse through the fabric of her shirt, and how it got stronger the harder I squeezed.

I remember liking it.

 "Fuck!"

I arise from the chair. I can't stay there any longer. I told her as well as myself that it would be the last time I ever had anything to do with her, but still I've stalled my resignation. I'm stuck in limbo, as I haven't become the person I was supposed to be at the end of this semester.

 

I get into my car and drive to the nearest bar, hoping that each gulp of Jack Daniel's will erase her from my mind, but it only gets stronger. I want her near me. I want her pleading, whispering my name. I want her to be consumed by me in the same way that I am consumed by her. Each time we fucked, and each time I saw her cum, there was a sense of small release. Her half-shut eyes as she looked at me, her open mouth as she gasped for breath. Her smile of pleasure as she clawed at my back. The taste of blood as I sucked the small puncture wounds on my hand from where she had bit me, and how I had wanted to duplicate the pain in her, and see her laugh at it.

I want more, and the thought scares me.

An image of her pained eyes, and my hands on her wrists flashes before my eyes.

I blink, and see myself staring at a woman across the bar who meets my gaze. She cocks an eye brow in question, and I look away, but it's too late. Sooner rather than later I feel her slide up on the bar stool next to me.

"Hey handsome," she murmurs in my ear, too close for comfort.

I gulp the last of my Jack Daniel's and ask the bartender for a refill.

"Honey, if you keep drinking in that pace there'll be nothing left of you before the night is over," she smirks, her hands creeping up one of my thighs, stroking it with a silken fingertip.

"You're lonely," I say, sensing her desperation in the way she clutches onto my body like a vice before I've even spoken a word to her.

"So are you," she replies.

"But you could have any man you chose," I continue.

"So could you."

I chuckle, and she smiles.

"Perhaps I could... But I'd rather have a woman... Such as yourself."

Her pupils dilate, her smile widening. "What are you offering?"

I stroke her cheek, and her face hungrily pushes against my hand.

"A warm bed in a hotel room."

"As long as it has a warm body that comes with it."

 

*****

 

At the hotel I put my hand around her head and pushes her face against my lips. She tastes like gin and tonic with an after-taste of old cigarettes, and her kisses are far too fast, as if she wants to get it over with as soon as possible. I involuntarily twist my head away from her, but she puts her hand behind my head and pushes it towards her, kissing my cheek, my neck, and trickling downwards as she unbuttons my pants.

It's wrong. It's all wrong.

"Relax, honey. I'll make you feel real good."

Her experienced fingers finds my cock, and she chuckles.

"Seems like I won the lottery, huh?"

"Look," I start, trying to move away, "I don't know if this is going to work..."

"Oh we're just getting started," she smirks, and pushes me down onto the bed. Her fingers works my sex, and it feels good. I exhale, letting myself succumb to her well-executed moves and shutting my eyes.

I see Jessica in my mind, leaned against a dumpster, smoking a cigarette. She's wearing a black tank top, short skinny jeans and combat boots. When she sees me she smiles and walks towards me. As she comes closer I see bruises on her neck and exposed arms, and as she leans in to kiss me I can taste the ash of her cigarette on my tongue...

But then I open my eyes and realize it's the woman kissing me, and that I am not at campus, but in the hotel room, and my heart sinks.

"Aw honey..." the woman murmurs. "What's wrong? We were just getting somewhere, but now..."

I follow her gaze towards my crotch, seeing my cock deflating slowly. I push her away and arise from the bed.

"Where are you going?" she says sternly.

"I can't do this."

"Yes you can. You promised."

"This was a mistake."

She arises, and tries to pull my shirt away from me as I try to put it back on.

"Please..." she murmurs. "Don't leave me here."

If I could take a picture of this moment, I would. If only to remember how two lonely souls does not equal a happy one.

I put on my shirt, and pull up my jeans. As I move towards the door, she runs and throws her body against me, pushing me up against the wall. She tries to kiss me again, but I wriggle out of her grip, and she moves backwards, looking at me with anger.

"You're like all the rest," she sobs. "You promise the world but you don't give a shit about anything, do you?"

"You're right... You deserve better."

I exit the room, and I hear her scream behind me.

"You fucker!!!!"

 

I go back to the bar, yearning even more for alcohol, but it feels tainted. Leaning back against the seat in my car, I can still smell the cigarettes of the woman inside of it. Why the fuck did I let her smoke?

I have no place to go. It's all tainted and ruined, just like I am. I clench my hand into a fist and punch it as hard as I can into the steering wheel, letting the car's horn shriek the pain I feel inside, my own vocal chords booming out the same loud noise together with it.

I punch it again. I punch myself. I punch the car seat. I punch the dash board. I punch the rear view mirror.

 

Before I know it, I am standing in front of her door with my hand on its handle. It's completely dark in the corridor, and so is her room as I open it.

I hear her rustle inside of her bed, the shadowy outline of a head looking up towards me.

"Mark?"

I don't even close the door behind me as I crawl into the bed with her and wrap my arms around her frame, inhaling her sweet, perfect scent. The cigarettes disappear from my memory, and so does the gin and tonic. All that exists is Jessica.

 

_Jessica._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!!! Sorry for the wait. I got inspired after realizing that I really liked writing from both characters perspectives rather than one. I hope I got Mark Jefferson right!


	7. The Uprising: Jessica

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessica wakes up with Mr. Jefferson in her bed and wishes he would stay forever.

I thought I had been dreaming, but as I wake up, sure enough, his arms are still latching onto my body for dear life.

I twist around to look at him sleep, and he looks up at me groggily. I wrap my hands around his face and kiss his forehead. He smells of liquor and cigarettes, and I am guessing he is currently experiencing a terrible hangover.

"You came back to me," I say. He shuts his eyes again.

I walk up and get a bottle of water and some pain killers and give them to him.

"Swallow them," I tell him, and he groans.

After I finally coax him into taking them, I let him sleep as I get dressed.

Somehow, Mark Jefferson creeped into my bed and is letting me take care of him, and there's no chance I am going to squander the opportunity.

I almost skip as I walk towards the café near the school to buy greasy bacon and eggs together with a coffee and some orange juice for him, but I take nothing for myself.

The hunger inside me makes the moment feel more real, and I want to latch onto every impression from it.

I almost run back, imagining he's disappeared again, but instead, I find him sitting up in bed with an unlit joint in his hand, the shock almost making me trip over the door frame.

"You should hide these better in case there's even an inspection," he says.

I dump the bag of food in his lap and take the coffee for myself. He's already awake. He doesn't need it.

"Are you going to smoke that thing or just stare at it?" I say as I sit down next to him on the bed.

"You know, I used to smoke pot when I was younger..." he murmurs.

"Oh?"

"It made me paranoid, and very unstable. I kept thinking my girlfriend at the time wanted to kill me, and that my agent was embessling money from my pay checks." He scoffs. "I wasn't that far off though. My girlfriend cheated on me and my agent was giving the best jobs to another one of his clients. They both called me a has-been. I did heavier drugs after that."

"Really?"

"You'd be surprised how easy it is for a famous photographer to get drugs... even one that was a washed up has-been."

"You're too young to be a has-been."

"Am I?"

He reaches out the joint towards my lips, and I bite it between my teeth. He stares at that part of my face for a long time. I freeze, unsure of what to do. Suddenly he blinks, and reaches into his pocket to pick up a lighter.

"Perhaps I am just like this joint here," he says, "I burn bright, but not for long."

I let him light it, even though I should know better not to smoke in my room. My next door neighbour might smell it and call someone to kick me off campus.

"You taste good though," I smirk, but instead of giving me the smile that I was expecting, he looks at me with a seeking expression.

"Breathe on me," he says.

"What?"

"You heard me."

I exhale a large puff of smoke, and he closes his eyes and inhales deeply, as if he wants to remember this moment in just as much detail as I do, but I doubt his motives are the same as mine.

"Is this a good bye?" I ask, my heart panging as the words leave my lips.

He looks up.

"Maybe."

"That's not an answer."

"I'm not good at answers."

"Look... I've been thinking. Your substitute position is almost over, and I'll be done with school. What's the big deal? You must've fucked tons of models as a photographer, so what's the difference with us?"

I try to say it with finesse, but imagining him with a thin, bombshell of a model makes my heart hurt even more. And I don't want to be just someone he fucks, but I can't tell him that. I'd scare him off... But why did he choose me in the first place? Perhaps I am merely an experiment. Perhaps he wants to see what a regular girl feels like after fucking as many models as he can stand.

"You know this is not the same thing."

"Isn't it?"

My heart beats so deep inside my chest I wish I could rip it out.

"I'm a teacher and you're a student."

"A model is a subject and you're their painter. They are yours to mould. I am yours to mold."

He moves into me, his blurry eyes suddenly awake with clarity.

"You wouldn't like to be molded by me. It would destroy you."

"Or it would make me become what I want to be."

"And what is that?"

"Yours."

"Fuck!" he cries in desperation, pushing me down onto the bed and pinning me down underneath him. My cup of hot coffee falls out of my grasp and splashes all over myself and him. We both gasp from the sudden burns, but he won't be phased by it. In fact, the pain only seems to spurr him further into aggression.

"This is not a game!" He cries, his face mere inches away from me. "You have your whole life ahead of you, and you can't let it be ruined by a fuck-up like me!"

"It's my life, and it's my choice." I move my hands towards his face to wipe away the stains of coffee, but he grabs them by the wrists and pins them down to the sides of my head.

"You're not fucking listening! This is fucked! When we're together-- we're both fucked! Don't you feel the pain I am giving you right now?"

"N-no..."

"Should I cause you more?!" He pushes my wrists further over my head, and I gasp, my heart racing faster. He's in full control, and I love it. With a raspy breath I push my chin upwards, exposing my neck, wishing him to grab it. _Use me._

He looks at it, confused, then his stance changes.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you...?" he murmurs, his grip loosening around my wrists. One of his hands moves down and strokes the outline of the fading bruises on my neck.

"I did this to you, and you want me to do it again?"

"Mark..."

He doens't respond.

"Just tell me what you want, and I'll do it," I say.

He shakes his head.

"If we go down this path, Jessica, I'm afraid there's no way for us to go back up again. Deep inside of me, there's something that, I think... I think you wouldn't like it."

"Show me and I'll decide for myself."

"I'm your teacher. I should protect you."

"I'm an adult. I can make my own decisions."

He shakes his head.

"I can't."

"You can't run away from me again," I croak, but I know I've already lost him. He closes the door softly on his way out, and I hear him greeting one of the other students on his way out.

"Shit...." I murmur.

*************************************

 I can feel people's eyes on me down the corridors, but no one speaks to me about it. Somehow I think that people refuse to believe that everyone's beloved Mark Jefferson would want to be in the company of a student like me, so there's no way they're even going to dignify that thought with asking me about it. Whichever is fine by me. I just want this school year to be over. I need a break.

In class I feel him stiffen as soon as I look at him. I don't want to be the one that disrupts him like this. He's supposed to thrive on ignoring me, not be pained by it. I stroke the newly-made bruises on my wrists, the pain reminding me of him. Perhaps it'd be better for him if I just disappeared.

But I can't let myself let him go. I just can't. The first time we slept together I knew that something inside of him was sent ablaze while I lay sprawled on his desk. When he reached for his glasses because he wanted to see me better, and I could see the mental images he took with each caress his fingertips gave me.

The way his firm hands held me sent something unspeakable into motion inside of myself, too. I want to know him better, and in order to do so, I need to trigger a response in him that worked last time.

When the class is over, I go into my dorm room, close the door, and take out my camera. This time a close up won’t do. I need to show him more.  
I put my camera on to a tripod and aim it towards my closed door. I set the focus, and pull off my shirt as I stand in front of it. I set the timer on taking multiple pictures after another.  
I wedge one of my wrists in between my breasts, the hand from my other arm stroking my most prominent bruise. I tilt my head down so that it’s close to my chest.  
Then as the timer beeps and the shutter starts clicking, I mouth the words; “SHOW ME”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jessica won't take no for an answer, eh? :) hope you like it!!


	8. The Struggle: Mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark is struggling with what to do when it comes to Jessica.

 I stare at the large, brown envelope sitting on my desk. There is no note attached, but I can already tell who it is from. My fingers shake as I open it.

_I can't. I can't ler her in.There are dark corners of my heart  that not even I want to know about._

A warmth spreads between my legs as I pull out six photographs in full color, edited to perfection, her beautiful rounded breasts hugged tightly by her bruised wrists, her perfectly shaped lips wording a sentence so delicately I can almost hear her whisper them directly to me.

As if possessed, I sprawl them out one my one onto my desk, and stare, transfixed from one of them to another. I put my face close to the last one, which seems to be wording an "E". My heavy breath is bounced back towards me, and I imagine its hers, huffing against me, her naked breasts pressed against my clothed body, her bruised arms trickling down towards my crotch.

I lick her breasts, her wrists, her mouth. I want her so badly that I can feel my cock already seeping of pre-cum.

I move my own hand down and unbuckle my belt, imagining its her, and that my own hands are busy squeezing her perfect tits towards my mouth.

I let out a moan as my hand fastens around my cock, pulling down my foreskin and pinching my tip. She'd tease me that way, I know she would. She'd give me just a hint of pain before letting me connect with her insides-- to push deep inside of her and let her feel all of me.

I press my body against my desk, my face engrossed by the picture in front of me. _She's mine. All mine._

I cock my hips back and forth as I work my throbbing sex up and down as I stare at her. The pain of knowing that she's not there with me even though her imagery dangles in front of me in the picture is so excrutiatingly sexy that my cock screams for her with every stroke of my finger against it.

_Jessica. Jessica. Jessica._

"Ffffffuck!"

Cum squirts underneath my desk and I pull back, the last of it landing on one of her images. I take a deep breath. It doesn't take long until I bring the images with me into the bathroom of the school.

This time I take it slower. Harder. Deeper.

*****

At the end of the school day, I take the images with me to the studio I've rented, and I put them up together with all of the other photographs that Jessica has handed into me as assignments. I switch orders of them and make a collage in the middle of the white canvas, and I start to fiddle with lights and camera angles, snapping my own pictures of her photographs.

It's the only way I can think of telling myself what I feel about her. Without my camera, I am nothing, and I am so desperately clinging to understanding my own conscious if I get to see it through the camera's lense.

I snap picture after picture in a frenzy, but  when I develop them I feel nothing. Something is wrong, but I can't put my finger on it. I try hanging them up together with Jessica's photographs, but they feel cold, untelling.

I leave the studio dejected and in a state of unworthy mess.

 _This is truly the end_ , I think. _I'm truly over as an artist._

 

The days pass in a blur. I barely remember one day to the next, but I can feel her hovering around me, but I refuse to myself look at her. Even if I try, I instinctively twist away. If I see her, she will remind me of everything I am not.

_I am nothing._

My evenings are spent drinking in a new bar with more Jack Daniel's and less eye contacts with the patrons inside of it. I still go to my rented studio, ripping photographs off the walls and them taping them back together. The studio is my funeral home. A sad show for a photographer who blossomed too soon and too quick.

_I am nothing._

*************

I am walking down one of the school's corridors when she suddenly stands there in front of me, her piercing eyes refusing to let me out of her sight. She walks towards me, and I move backwards, and suddenly slam into a wall.

She stops mere inches away from my face, her vanilla perfume forcing its ways into my nostrils. It mixes with her warm breath, whose kisses always reminded me of rhubarb tea.

"What are you doing?" She asks.

I stare, transfixed. I've looked at her photographs every night for weeks. It's as if seeing a saint in flesh and blood, and the feeling terrifies me.

"Leave me alone," I say, but it comes out as a small shriek. "We're being watched."

She picks up a joint, and lights it.

"For fucks sake, Jessica, you can't smoke in here!"

She exhales a whiff of smoke in my face.

"There's a week left until graduation. Do you really think they're going to expell me now?"

My eyes dart towards the students around us. They're all going about their business, but I can see them glancing our way as they walk past.

"You're still a student."

"And you're still a teacher. So you better fucking act like it."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Figure it out," she says, cocking her head as a sign of resignation as she leaves me, inhaling another smoke from her joint. She exits a nearby door towards the court yard, and I am guessing she's going to her regular hide out behind the dumpsters. She didn't dare to push her luck too far. Just enough to try to wake me up, but she didn't succeed.

 

I go back to my classroom, knowing I have the last assignment left to grade. I've been dreading seeing another empty slot from Jessica, and having to fail her after knowing what talent she has would be the final straw in my demise.

To my astonishment however, she has handed in a picture. It's a simple silhouette of herself, smiling towards the camera with a bustling city in the background. It's simple and tasteful, without any of the remorse and pain I've grown to know from her imagery.

I sit at my desk, baffled.

 

Suddenly the door to the classroom opens, and I see her standing there with a dejected expression on her face.

"I see you've finally started grading our assignments," she says, but I can't give her an answer. I'm still in shock.

She moves towards my desk, looking down on the photographs on it. She sees her own, and she pushes a fingernail onto it.

"This is what you wanted, wasn't it? A student showing what she had been taught from her teacher's lectures."

"It's the perfect assignment picture," I say.

"Yup."

"But it's not brilliant."

"Nope."

"Jessica... It's not... It can't be... You?"

"It is," she says, squatting down in front of me, resting her arms on my legs. She looks deeply into my eyes. "This is me, without you. This is me as a student, and you as a teacher."

"Yes."

"I'll be gone within a week. So will you."

"Yes."

"This can be a perfect good bye if that is what you want."

"..."

She sighs. "Just tell me one thing, and I'll leave you alone, okay?"

"Okay."

"I've taken your silence regarding my other photographs as a no, so..."

"Which ones?"

"Don't act stupid. I asked you to show me what you refused to show anyone else. I just want to know what you did when you received them."

"Honestly?"

"Honestly."  
I take a deep breath. If this is truly good bye, I do owe her some honesty, but perhaps not all of it.

"I took them with me to the bathroom."

Her hands move further up my thighs. "And then what?"

"I-I...." I stutter, her eyes are transfixed on me, and the words just come tumbling out. "I’ve never wanted to fuck as much as I did when I saw them."

Her hands grasp my crotch, and I feel my legs opening up, her body moving in between them. I let out a small groan.

"Jessica..."

"It's after school hours. No one would be caught dead here unless they had to. It's all party the last week. Besides... Wouldn't it be exciting if they actually caught us?"

My cock pulsates against my trousers, feeling her palm rub against it.

"You're crazy..." I murmur.

"Am I?"

"No... If you are... Then so am I."

She pinches the tip of my erect cock through my trousers, just like I imagined her doing while I jacked off, and it pushes me over the edge.

"Unh-" I moan, letting myself accept the pleasure she wants to give me. She unbuckles my belt.

"Tell me more of what you did in the bathroom."

"I imagined you there with me, your beautiful breasts posed just like in the photograph."

She opens my zipper. "And then what?"

"First I kissed your bruises, but then you lay my hands on top of them, telling me to squeeze. Hard. When I did, you squeezed my dick, and you began to... unh…”

She pulls out my cock through my trousers and givse it a quick lick. My legs shudder as her mouth opens and takes me into it.

Her tongue circles around it as she sucks, only slowing down to tease and pinch. It's too good. My nails dig deep into my chair, my gasps growing faster and faster. I'm just about to cum, when she stops, and I groan of frustration.  
She arises.  
“Stay,” I beckon, and she move towards me, kneeling over my lap. She rub her clit against my quivering cock, and all I want to do is push deep inside her, but she won't let me. My hands move up towards her breasts, massaging them as I kiss them. She pushes herself down on me, and I grab her, hard. _I won't ever let you go._

“Fuck me,” I demand with such intensity that I see her nipples get stiff, and her whole body shivers against me.  
“Like this, Mr. Jefferson?” she asks, moving her hips in a circular motion. I shudder of delight, feeling her warmth spread throughout my body.  
“Mmh,” I moan. “Yes, just like that. Unh…”  
My words trigger her to move faster, not being able to contain herself. I spread my legs so wide that I reach so deeply into her that I feel myself starting to crumble.

“Mmh..!" she moans.

“Fuck, Jessica, I’m about to—“  
“Cum,” she demand, “Yes, cum!”  
I squeeze her tight, pushing into her as she pushes down. We're both encircled and confined by each other, my body fighting against itself sending adrenaline into my full-blown orgasm. I let out a groan of delight, but Jessica is too caught up in her own to even hear me.

 *******

In the aftermath of sex, I've often felt shame, as if I've let out a part of me that should've never been there in the first place.

This is the first time that I find myself not shying away from the turmoil within me, but instead, I embrace it. I finally know why my attempts at the studio have been terrible. I want to capture her myself. I want her. The talent she portrays in her photographs, and how she can reach into her soul and show it to the world so willingly, so pure... I want it to be mine. All mine.

"Jessica... What if I were to capture you? Would you hate me?"

"Capture me?"

"Yes. With all the inclination of what the word brings."

She looks at me intently, and I pause to let her consider my words.

"I want to view you in the same way you view yourself. I want to capture you through my real lense, and make you stay with me forever."

"I would like nothing more than just that, Mr. Jefferson."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Hope you like it


	9. The conclusion: Jessica

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this final chapter, Jessica takes the bull by the horns and hunts down her special teacher to teach him a thing or two.

I've lost my patience. The entire week, I've been waiting for him to open up once again. To continue with his request as I had told him I wanted to be a part of it.

Instead, he's hid himself once more, and the small part of him that he exposed to me last week has been extinguished without a trace.

After our classes he runs out the door faster than any of the students, and he is nowhere to be seen near campus. I've checked the local diners and bars without any luck, but I've worked too hard to make him open up to let him shut me out again.

Tonight is the last day of school and the night of graduation, I finally know where he's going to be. He might be older than me, but no geezer says no to being invited to the students' unofficial graduation party, which usually hosts no teachers. As Mr. Jefferson is almost our age and all students find him cool, he was invited by at least half of our school.

It's an ounce of the limelight that I know he desperately seeks, and I am desperately seeking him, which is why I search through the crowds of dancing people, try to listen for his voice through booming music, and get more than four drinks spilled over me in the process.

If I hadn't smoked at least three joints before entering, I would be freaking out at this point.

I see a girl from my photography class, and our eyes meet. She smiles and move towards me.

"Hey, Jessica!" she calls. " I just wanted to say... We haven't spoken much and all, but honestly, I'm really looking forward to see what you'll be doing in the future."

"Hey... Yeah... Me too, I guess..." I'm not good at compliments nor small-talk. "Listen, uh, have you seen Mr. Jefferson?"

She chuckles. "You're the fourth one to ask me that tonight! He's truly Mr. Popular isn't he? Nah, dude... If I had though... I totally would've made some moves on that piece of hot ass, if you know what I mean..."

"Sure..."

"But really though. We should stay in contact after this. Maybe even do a project together. I know we didn't really talk in class, but, you're kind of intimidating..."

"Yeah, sorry... Sure... Listen, I gotta go, uh, but we'll talk soon, yeah?"

My head is throbbing from the music that I can barely listen to what she's saying, and the crowd around us is pushing us so close together that I feel like I'm suffocating.

"I need to go for a smoke!" I call to her as I wave her goodbye, and escape the jungle as soon as possible. I don't even remember her name.

 

I hide behind the dumpster again, lighting another joint.

"What a fucking waste this was..." I murmur, gazing at my own body. I had even tried to look presentable, spending some of my graduation money from my family on a sparkly, dark silvery tube dress that hugged my body in all the right places, and I had taken extra care in applying my make up. I even had on lipstick.

"Waste..." I repeat again, kicking the dirt in front of me and gaze out into the distance.

Suddenly I see a body moving in the parking lot. A young man with a pristinely white shirt and a pair of grey trousers.

_Mark._

I know better than to call out to him. Instead, I run towards my own car, realize what a loud dump of a car it is, and how easily he will be able to spot me if I use it, and snatch an unlocked bicycle at the end of the street instead.

I will follow this motherfucker until I know either where he lives, or where this new bar he goes to is located, and that's all there is to it.

 

I take extra care to stay out of his way to make sure he doesn't see me, and fortunately for me, it's a small town, meaning there's not many cars that honk at me for riding oddly in the road. However, I barely pay attention when Mr. Jefferson sweers off to the left, and into a big complex of houses, that I lose track.

"Shit!"

I bicycle faster, twisting my head left and right, trying to find a parking lot, but there's nothing to be found. Suddenly, I hear a door open behind me, and I am just able to see his white shirt go behind it.

I toss myself off the bike, running towards the heavy metal door before it closes, and sneak behind it and press myself into the shadows while I hear him walk down a pair of stairs. The door I just snuck in from closes with an echoing boom.

I sneak down the stairs after him, tip-toeing as quietly as I can. Perhaps it's the buzz from the joints, but I'm not really questionning why his apartment should be in a complex that looks more like a warehouse than anything else.

I hear the rustle of keys, and turn to face him opening a door to a storage unit.

"Well look who it is," I cry out as soon as he opens the door, and he freezes in the door frame.

"What are you doing here?" he whimpers.

"If Muhammad won't come to the mountain..." I murmur.

"You're drunk."

"Nope. Just high."

"Why am I not surprised?"

I step up to him, staring at his face, trying to figure out what is going on inside of it. He stares back.

I push him away from the door, and he falters backwards with ease only because he wasn't expecting it.

"Hey, wait--!" he calls as I enter the storage. I hit the light switch, and it’s so bright in there my eyes have to adjust for awhile. Then I see it.

"A studio," I say, surprised.

“This… is my dark room.”  
I walk towards the middle of the room, seeing a wall plastered with images. I am everywhere-- in photographs that have been torn into pieces that have been taped together, or switched around to create a photographic quilt.  One features only my breasts in different poses and another nothing but my lips. Another, only my eyes.

I pick up a joint from my pocket and light it up.

"Do you really need to do that?" he asks, walking into the room after me and closing the door behind him.

"It helps me relax."

"Do I not relax you enough?"

I walk up towards him and slung my arms around his head, pushing his face into my chest.

"Sometimes, you do, yeah."

He can't stop himself from letting out a small chuckle. He's warming up towards me again. Good. I pull back and examine the studio.

"This is quite a place."

"It's the only thing I can afford," he says, shame in his voice. "I used to be able to have lofts for these kind of things."

"You'll have them again."

"Will I?"

"Sure..." I murmur, the hit of the joint blurring my mind's train of thought. I stare at the images all around, seeing my own body staring back. "You're obsessed with me,"

"I am," he says simply.

"I'm obsessed with you, too." I put out my joint, and push up against him.

"Stop. Jessica... Don't."

"Why? Do you like my photographs more than you like me?"

"No, but..."

"You do, don't you?"

My mind shifts into believing this was a mistake, all of it, and that he'll hate me now, that he'll burn the photographs he put up of me, and find someone else. I am merely porn-- a woman without a face or mind. I'm a photoshopped mess that I created myself, and he'll grow tired of it if he stares at the images I've created for far too long. Who's to say he's not sick of them already?

I pull one of the photographs off the walls, closing my hand into a fist with it inside. The crumpled texture feels good against my skin.

"My tits," I say, pulling off another photograph, "my eyes, my lips..." I pull off another, and another. "Why are they so good separate but not when they're placed together right here in front of you?!"

I step towards the back of the room, where lights are turned on towards a white canvas.

"Go ahead, Mr. Jefferson. Take a picture. That's what you want, isn't it? I'm right here!"

"Stop!" he cries, but I refuse. I take off my jacket, and pull off my shoes.

""Do you want to see those tits you've been oggling down here?"

"Jessica, please!"

I pull down my tube dress down to my waist, exposing my breasts. I squeeze them tightly together, trying to pose like I did in my photographs.

"Is this the way you like them?"

My nipples turn erect in the cold air, and Mark stares at them almost longingly.

"Are they only pretty in photographs?" I ask, the fury in me refusing to see what my brain knows.

"No!" he screams. "I mean- ugh, please, just..."

"Just what? Don't exist?" my voice breaks, and tears drips down my cheeks. "You're the fucking worst."

"Jessica..."

He's down on his knees now, his fingers laced into his hair. He looks confused. Torn. Then he looks up, and wipes his nose on his sleeve. He's been crying, but I barely noticed in my rage. He moves towards me and next to a tripod with a camera already latched on. Before I even know what he's about to do, he snaps a picture. I flinch from the sudden flashes. He takes another. And another.

Then he moves towards me, and pushes me towards him. My breasts push against his silken shirt, his warm body underneath enveloping me. I can feel his heartbeat against mine.

"I've missed you so fucking much," he whimpers inbetween breaths, his hands sliding up my back, fondling my breasts. He kisses them with such enthusiasm that I feel myself arching backwards with delight.

"I've missed you too."

 He pushes me onto the floor, encasing me with his muscular legs. I try to reach up towards him to pull him down to kiss me, but his hands grab my wrists and push me down.

"Don't move," he breathes, his mouth mere centimeters from mine. Then he shifts to the left, reaching for his camera, his fingers stroking the outline of my jaw.

"This beautiful curve right here..." he murmurs, "I've only seen a hint of it in your photographs, and I want it. I've wanted to view it in close up for months..."

His camera comes down towards me, and as it clicks near my face, it's as if I was given a soft kiss.

His fingers trail down my shoulder, and I hear another click. My chest rises and falls underneath his legs, the weight of him constraining me to an utmost delight. I try to wriggle merely to feel the pressure even more, and his legs squeeze tighter as I try to move.

"Hold still," he breathes heavily, his mouth so close to my ribcage I can feel his warm breath against it while his lense views my breasts in all their glory. _Click._

"My God, Jessica, how can you have been hiding your beauty for so long?"

He squeezes me even tighter now, his body almost lying flat over me as his lens hovers over my eyebrow and forehead. His crotch is splayed over mine, a hard erection forming against my already pulsating vulva.

I wriggle again, this time only with my waist, small sparks lighting up as soon as I feel his cock against me.

He swallows, hard. _Click._

I kiss his chin as it moves near my face. _Click._

I lick the side of his mouth for a short second. _Click._

His mouth envelops mine, and his camera falls to the side of us. I spread my legs wider, embracing his hips, and his legs are suddenly between me now, his fingers encasing my thighs and moving up underneath my skirt, pulling down my underwear. He unzips his pants and hastily pushes into me.

"Oh fuck I've missed this," I gasp, my arms closing around his head and my lips locking with his. Our tongues collide in beautiful harmony.

He pushes my wrists above my head, holding them together with one hand, the other encasing my neck. In between our kissing, he presses, gently, at the same time as he thrusts into me. It feels so good that I cum before he does. And then I cum again. And again.

 

*****

 

A few months later, I’m thrown into the back seat of a car, my eyes blindfolded. Suddenly we stop, and I am pulled out and slung over his shoulder. He’s already sweating, I can smell it mixed with his aftershave. I push my nose against him and inhale deeply.

Then he heaves me down, and my feet falter onto steady ground.

“Take off your blindfold,” he demands, and I comply.

It's a new studio, with more tools for our pleasure.

"I found rope that won't shafe your skin like it did last time-- if you'd like to be naked that is... And tied up."

"You read my mind..." I squeal. "You're getting good at tying me up."

"Do you want to know where we are?"

"No... Keep it a mystery."

We both know that our games won't last forever. I've gotten an art grant in Chicago and he just got a studio back in Los Angeles. I helped him a few weeks back by posing for a small fashion spread that he had gotten a job for, and people loved it so much that it was as though he was re-discovered by the world. They called me his new muse, but I'm not a model, even though I do still pose for my own photographs from time to time.

I'm going to do my own thing, and so is he. I am however going to miss these fleeting moments with him. We're already discussing meeting once or twice a year to continue it. It's a portfolio that only he and I will ever share with each other. It would be fun to see it grow.

"Sometimes I feel as though I don’t say this often enough, Jessica… But I truly love you."

I point towards a leather belt hanging from a chair, and he grabs it with sweaty fingers, tightening it around my wrists.

“I know you do, Mark.”

And then he pulls it tight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally!! The End!!! This has been such a wonderful ride, and I've loved writing from Mark's perspective. I might do that more... who knows :D Thank you all who have been reading! Your comments really pushed me to continue. You all rock!  
> Hope you enjoy this, too!


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